


The Calm Before the Storm

by TheAndorianMiningConsortium



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Klingons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 19:03:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1699193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAndorianMiningConsortium/pseuds/TheAndorianMiningConsortium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gowron in TNG: Reunion after Picard tells him and Duras they have to wait for an hour before continuing with the ceremony.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Calm Before the Storm

He stared into the mirror, and attempted to study his own face as though through the eyes of another. His strong hooked nose, his upswept brows and dark rugged hair. Teeth as sharp as daggers. Eyes that blazed so ferociously that they could strike fear into the hearts of gods. He did it again, and for a moment, almost succeeded in frightening even himself as they bulged from their sockets and stared back at him, into his own soul. His lips curled, and he smiled a wide and toothy smile. _Perfect_.

Of course, merely _looking_ intimidating wasn't going to be enough. Gowron would have to do far more than simply be his handsome self- he had to talk the talk... and, more importantly, fight the fight. He fingered his d'k tahg, examining the edges of the blade, then gripped it more firmly and held it between himself and the mirror. It gleamed in the light. Perhaps, later, it would gleam with the blood of his enemy as it dripped from the metal and his life ebbed away. Probably, thought Gowron. No - not probably - _certainly_. There was no time for half-heartedness here, no room for anything other than complete and total enthusiasm and conviction. To show weakness, to even contemplate thinking about weakness, for even a split second, could be his downfall. He had to be firm, and allow himself to show no fear, no misgiving... not even the merest flicker of uncertainty. The only question to be asked was whether that enemy would be killed by his knife, or by his sword.

Today, Gowron was to face Duras, and soon afterwards he would earn his place as Chancellor of the Klingon Empire. At least, this was what he wished for, but his heart was heavy and though he did not dare to admit it even to himself, laced with an anxiety that by now, he had almost completely succeeded in squashing. _Almost_. The tiniest tremor of trepidation was all that remained now, and he pushed it away, scowled at himself until he felt as fearsome as he looked... but at times it could still rise and catch him out. Duras was, he could not forget for one moment, a better fighter, a more cunning combatant, and bigger than he, and stronger, and broader... and the power of _his_ body and its command over the weapons that it wielded, was rivalled only by the power that he commanded from his myriad of supporters. Defeating Duras would be the single greatest challenge that Gowron had ever faced in his life, and the odds that he would fail to accomplish this goal were great. He heaved a sigh- _No_. He must  _not_ allow himself to think upon that. Not for so much as a millionth of a second could he let himself even _begin_ to contemplate it.

What was important was to remember that in his heart beat courage and honour, and with courage and honour on his side, he may as well command the forces of nature themselves. Today could be the day that he rose to power and changed the world, or today could be the day that he would die. He relaxed his bugging eyeballs, and watched in the mirror as they settled back into their sockets, then heaved a sigh. There was no way to know the outcome until it happened, and wondering about what _might_ be served no purpose, until that future became the present and then the past. What if's were a waste of time- _Now_ , it was time to be strong.

This was all Picard's fault, of course. Quite why K'mpec had chosen this _human_ as Arbiter, Gowron did not know, but he must have had his reasons. Was it for a challenger to question his predecessor? Probably not, Gowron thought, but his mind had a difficult time refraining from drifting, nonetheless. Picard the Starfleet officer, Picard the outsider. Much like himself, Gowron mused. If he _was_ to be successful, would the people think that he, too, was nothing more than an interfering thorn that nestled into the skin, to irritate the flesh of the Empire? _No_ \- he shut that thought off before it could go any further. Whether their support came immediately, or was slow and dragging, he would have it, either way. He was right about everything, he was intelligent and he was wise, and where Duras was vile, he was honourable, fair, and strong of heart, and strong of will. He would prevail.

An hour. A whole hour to spare, and nothing to do but wait. It was the waiting that caused these meandering musings, the discomfort of having one's veins pumped up with excitement and adrenaline, senses strung as tight as a cord that could snap and spring back and hit you in the face. To be ready for the battle. Ready to charge in with blood boiling, roaring his challenge... and then just when he was about to go, to fling himself into the fray, to be told to sit still and do nothing! And to make matters worse, it was for no particular reason, no purpose at all! Infuriating! Why the delay? What did Picard hope to accomplish? _What_ was that K'Ehleyr woman telling him? Were they conspiring, perhaps? Did they hope to affect the outcome of this ceremony? Or were they simply sitting on their asses and talking trite talk because that is what Federation officers do best? Gah! He growled at the mirror, and then fixed himself a drink and did his best to compose himself, and retain his calm. A warrior who allows anger and impatience to get in the way of his task, does not succeed in that task... and he does not remain a warrior for very long.

Gowron would prevail anyway. Whatever happened, he _would_ prevail. If he didn't, he wouldn't live long enough to know anything about it. So what was the use in self doubt, at this point? He raised his mug to the mirror, toasted himself, and downed it in one.

He would prevail.


End file.
